you run for deer life
blood shoots through veins of flesh
horns rattling branches as
hooves sink in dark autumn mulch

and rifleshot cracks the cold air
shatters your ribs blood exploding spraying
you stagger pain and run on pain
world reels in your eyes

rifleshot cracks

your head jerks odd angle
bony point on right antler splinters
in near miss pain in side inside

but then eyes clear as lovewarmthstrength
fills you pain washes away spindly legs become
muscled springs launching through forest faster than
before ever before and in mind mixed
of personal moment and species past is sudden
recognition of GODHOOD in you but
also utter terrifying aloneness
other deer in forest but you the last of herd
of line from out you heaved bloody sticky awkward

cold air run no pain run hunter far behind
you reach sweet drinking creek slow blood flow from
side of mouth hot sweet stagger fold
to earth painless grace vision rolls breathe
breathe breathe not
two spirits die in you
your herd your line
are no more.

She rises lunar above the crumpled flannel horizon
Heavenly body shimmering with lambent light–
Beaded sweat–
And the tide of blood in me flows toward her.
Then my Rising Sign waxes
Called by her–
And her fullness wanes
Across the dark-wall sky
And by the moonlight beacon of the window
I am eclipsed
Wet
Once again
By her darkness.

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TIM BYRD

The author of the Doc Wilde adventure series, Tim is often barefoot, prone to irony, and interested in everything. He has been a soldier, game designer, independent filmmaker, and outdoor guide. He knows how to tie a tie, but doesn't care to.